Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

22. Epilogue - Jack

The Whistleport Summer Festival sprawled across the harbor front, transforming our quiet lobstering town into a vibrant celebration of coastal life. Paper lanterns strung between weathered dock posts swayed in the evening breeze, their glow intensifying as daylight surrendered to dusk. The festival had been a town tradition for decades before we arrived, but this year, it was ours, too.

"Jack! Silas!" June Miller waved from her bakery's booth, flour still dusting her forearms despite her festive attire. "I've saved you boys some of those blueberry hand pies. Can't have you filling up on Eugenie's fried clams before dessert."

Silas's fingers remained intertwined with mine as we navigated through clusters of our neighbors. "You realize she's been holding those pies hostage since noon," he murmured, his beard brushing my ear as he leaned in. "I watched her turn away three summer tourists who tried to buy them."

"The privileges of becoming a year-round resident," I replied, raising my free hand to greet Mr. Peterson, who sat in his designated judging chair for the upcoming chowder competition. "Though I think it has more to do with you finally sharing your cinnamon roll recipe with her."

"A calculated business decision," Silas protested, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him. "Her sourdough technique was worth the trade."

We paused at the edge of the harbor walkway, taking in the tableau before us. Children darted between booths selling saltwater taffy and handcrafted trinkets. The scent of fried seafood and caramel corn mingled with the omnipresent salt air. From somewhere near the bandstand, fiddle music competed with laughter and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the docks.

I spotted Cody across the crowd, huddled with Tyler and three other teammates near the makeshift stage. His hands moved as he spoke, pulling a folded paper from his pocket and then tucking it away again. My son—nearly eleven now and growing too fast for his hockey jerseys to keep pace—had insisted on participating in the poetry reading portion of the festival despite his initial nerves.

"He's been practicing that poem for two weeks," I said to Silas. "Even made me leave the room yesterday during his final rehearsal."

"Secret artistic process," Silas nodded solemnly. "Very important."

"You've corrupted him with your poetic sensibilities."

I watched Cody from a distance, noticing how he straightened his shoulders when speaking to his friends and how his gestures had become more assured in recent months. He'd grown into himself since our arrival in Whistleport—not only physically, though the summer growth spurt had ambushed us both—but in the quiet confidence that now anchored his movements.

"He's going to be brilliant," Silas said, following my gaze. His voice had the same pride that swelled within me—a shared emotion that needed no explanation between us. "Poetry and hockey. Rory's influence is showing."

"And yours," I replied, nudging his shoulder with mine. "Don't think I haven't noticed him practicing latte art when he thinks I'm not looking."

Silas laughed the sound blending with the carnival atmosphere around us. "Future barista champion of New England. I've been teaching him the rosetta pattern."

I took a deep breath, savoring the moment—this perfect slice of life we'd carved out in a town that had welcomed us with open arms and minimal judgment. Well, minimal by small-town standards, which still involved considerable scrutiny and unfiltered commentary, particularly from Dottie Perkins.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Brooks appeared with Rory at his side. "You two are late," Brooks announced, clapping me on the shoulder. "We saved you seats near the stage for the reading. Prime viewing area for Cody's debut."

"We got caught up at home," Silas explained, the tips of his ears reddening slightly.

Rory smirked. "I bet you did."

"The display case repairs ran long," I clarified, though no one appeared convinced. "That antique wood requires careful attention."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Brooks waggled his eyebrows. "Careful attention?"

"Will you hold our spots?" Silas asked. I've got something to show Jack.

"Back in ten," insisted Brooks.

"Easy."

I spotted it before Silas did. "Look at that," I nodded toward a new booth near the harbormaster's office. A hand-painted sign proclaimed Tidal Grounds: Camden , with an artistic rendering of a lighthouse perched atop a coffee cup. Sarah operated the station, deftly pulling shots of espresso for a line of summer tourists.

"Second location up and running." I squeezed Silas's hand. "You finally did it."

"She's handling it better than I expected. The Camden shop already has regulars."

"And you've only checked the inventory spreadsheets—three times today?"

"Twice," he corrected, but his sheepish smile betrayed him. "Maybe four if you count the text messages."

"Practically hands-off management." I bumped his shoulder playfully. "Next thing we know, you'll be taking actual vacations."

The concept of Silas relinquishing control would have seemed impossible months ago. The man who once double-checked his door locks three times had gradually eased his grip on the constant need for certainty. Small steps, each one a victory over the fear of what might happen if he wasn't vigilantly standing guard.

We continued past artisan booths selling everything from handcrafted lobster buoys to watercolor paintings of the lighthouse. A group of children raced by, sticky with cotton candy residue, nearly colliding with Knick Knickerbocker, who balanced a tray of steaming cups.

"Careful there, kiddos!" he called after them good-naturedly. He spotted us and grinned. "Just the men I was looking for. Ziggy brought some Colombian beans for Silas to try. Direct from the source."

"Incredible timing," Silas replied. "I'm finalizing next month's special roast menu."

"And Jack," Knick continued, "Brooks mentioned you've taken on assistant coaching for the junior league. Cody must be thrilled."

"Mostly embarrassed," I admitted. "Nothing worse than your dad showing up at practice with a whistle and clipboard."

"He'll appreciate it later," Knick assured me. "It's the same way Ziggy pretends to be mortified when I wear a 'Hockey Dad' jersey at his university games. It's practically a father's obligation."

The casual reference to fatherhood caught me off guard. Not because it was wrong but because it sounded so natural—this easy inclusion in the circle of Whistleport's parents, these conversations about raising children now included me without question or qualification.

"Knick's right," Silas added after Knick continued on his rounds. "Cody practically glows when you're coaching, even when he's rolling his eyes."

"Speaking of coaching," I nodded toward the bandstand, where Rory was assembling tonight's poetry readers. "Looks like they're getting organized. Should we find those seats Brooks mentioned?"

We continued toward the seating area, where folding chairs sat in loose semicircles facing the small stage. The harbor provided a stunning backdrop, boats gently bobbing in the golden light of early evening. Strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, not yet illuminated but ready for when darkness fell.

As we claimed our seats near the front, I surveyed the gathering crowd. The faces had grown familiar over the months—not just names attached to coffee orders or hockey parents, but people with stories I knew, connections I understood. Vi and Ruthie bickered amicably about the best vantage point. Mr. Peterson discussed this season's fishing regulations with a group of lobstermen. Even Edward, visiting for the weekend, had found his place, deep in conversation with June Miller about historical building preservation.

"It's different now," I said quietly to Silas. "Being here."

He nodded, understanding without explanation. "You're not watching from the outside anymore."

"Neither are you," I pointed out. "Town barista turned business owner turned community pillar."

Silas's fingers found mine. "I spent so many years thinking I was keeping myself safe by staying apart. Now, I can't imagine why that ever made sense."

"Fear makes sense in the moment," I replied. "Until you find something that makes you want to be brave."

Rory approached the microphone, tapping it twice to check the sound. The crowd began to settle, conversation dimming to murmurs. Cody and his friends took their designated seats at the side of the stage, my son's leg bouncing with nervous energy as he clutched his poem.

"Thank you all for coming to the annual Whistleport Summer Festival poetry reading," Rory announced, his teacher's voice carrying clearly across the harbor front. "We've got a stellar lineup tonight, from seasoned veterans to promising new voices. Please welcome our first reader, Ziggy Knickerbocker, home from university and graciously sharing new work with us tonight."

Applause erupted as Ziggy took the stage, confidence evident in his easy stride. As he began to read—something about ocean currents and homecoming—I found myself fully present in a way I hadn't experienced in years. The festival, the town, the people around us—it wasn't just a place we lived. It was where we belonged.

Silas leaned closer, his shoulder pressed against mine, steady and warm in the cooling evening air. "This is real," he whispered.

As the lineup progressed, I caught snippets of whispered commentary around us.

"Did you hear Ruthie's verse about her late husband? Nearly had me in tears."

"Brooks Bennett should stick to hockey. Poetry's not his strong suit."

"That college girl's environmental piece was powerful. Reminds me of Silas's work from last winter."

Silas's arm rested against mine, our shoulders touching. He'd been unusually quiet throughout the readings, his attention divided between the performers and Cody, who remained perched on the edge of his seat stage-right.

"You okay?" I whispered during a brief transition between readers.

He nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just thinking about the first time I read here. How terrified I was to step out from behind my counter."

"And now?" I prompted.

"Now I'm watching Cody prepare to do the same."

Rory returned to the microphone. "Next up, we have a young man making his festival debut. Many of you know him as the forward who scored the championship-winning goal this season, but tonight he's sharing another talent with us. Please welcome Cody St. Pierre."

"Hi, everyone," he began, his voice steadier than I'd expected. "This is my first time reading at the festival, so... thanks for listening." He unfolded his paper, smoothing it carefully before continuing. "This poem is called Whistleport Winter to Summer. I wrote it about our first year here."

The crowd settled into attentive silence. Cody took a deep breath and began to read.

We arrived in winter—strangers wrapped in city coats too thin for Maine, wheels crunching on frozen gravel, boxes packed with memories we weren't sure would fit. The harbor lay silent under ice, a playground we didn't know was waiting. On frozen water, I found my place— blades cutting stories into temporary surfaces, teammates who didn't know me before, only my now, my next goal, my growing strength.

Dad's eyes softened, watching from the stands, worry lines replaced by smile creases. Each cup of coffee stretched longer, conversations deeper than the harbor. We learned Whistleport's secret language: how nods replace paragraphs, how gossip travels faster than text messages, how names become invitations.

The ice began to crack in March, revealing currents underneath— not dangerous, but alive,moving us toward something unexpected. Dad laughed easier, stayed later at Tidal Grounds. Three became family without announcement— casual touches, shared glances, borrowed sweaters. Papa visited, bringing pieces of before, finding space within our now, Summer's arrival painted everything golden— lobster boats replacing skates, shoreline practices instead of frozen rinks, windows open to salt-tinged breezes.

Hockey sticks lean in corners now, patient until autumn's return, but our team never disbanded— I just added a new player, a different jersey.

His voice started quietly, gaining strength with each line. The boyish enthusiasm that characterized his hockey commentary transformed into something more measured and deliberate as he shared the carefully crafted verses he'd worked on for weeks.

Beside me, Silas reached for my hand, his fingers interlacing with mine as we listened to my son—our son, in all the ways that mattered—express his journey in terms neither of us had anticipated.

Cody's expression reflected complete absorption in his performance. His hockey-callused hands held the paper steady, his voice rising and falling with the rhythms he'd developed during those secret practice sessions in his bedroom.

The audience leaned forward collectively, drawn into the world he was creating with each careful phrase. Dottie Perkins dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. Brooks nodded in recognition at a particularly vivid description of post-game exhaustion. Even Edward, seated near the back, watched with undisguised pride.

When he finished, the silence stretched for three heartbeats—that magical pause when art has penetrated defenses and found its mark. Then applause erupted, genuine and enthusiastic. Cody's face broke into a relieved grin as he ducked his head in acknowledgment.

Silas squeezed my hand, his thumb tracing a pattern against my knuckles. "That was remarkable," he murmured, voice husky with emotion.

As Cody returned to his seat, receiving high-fives from Tyler and their other friends, I watched my son transform from poet to hockey-obsessed pre-teen in seconds.

The poetry reading continued with several more performers, but my attention remained partly fixed on Cody. The boy who had arrived in Whistleport seeking only a place to play hockey without the shadow of divorce hanging over him had discovered something more: his own voice, strengthened by the community that had welcomed us both.

The harbor darkened around us as night settled fully over Whistleport. Stars emerged above the festival grounds, competing with the string lights for brilliance. The final reader concluded to enthusiastic applause, and the evening transitioned toward the traditional fireworks display that would close the festival.

Silas leaned close, his beard tickling my ear. "I think he just outperformed both of us."

"No question," I agreed, watching Cody accept congratulations from several neighbors. "When did he get so grown up?"

"One careful word at a time," Silas replied softly. "Just like the rest of us."

***

Thank you for reading Hometown Heat . It is the second book in the Whistleport Hockey series.If you haven't read it yet, don't miss the first book, Hometown Hero , Brooks and Rory's story.